The Jealousy Game Over, Marriage Over: The Donna Who Walked Away novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Madre's Table

Madre orders Marisa home and then asks for Corrado's little brass key; she has never asked for anything of hers before.

On the third day Madre sent her driver to the bakery with a message.

Lunch at one o'clock. Do not make me ask twice.

I went because no one in the Sarnelli family had ever said no to Madre and I wanted to hear how it sounded.

Her house in Chiaia smelled of beef ragù and furniture polish, the same as it had on my wedding day.

Marcella Sarnelli sat at the head of the table in black, with her silver hair pinned low and her gold cross at her throat.

She was sixty-three and had run three households, two shipping companies and one husband.

"Sit," she said.

I sat.

The housekeeper put a plate in front of me. Madre watched me not pick up my fork.

"You made your point," she said. "The whole city is talking about it. Now come home."

"I made a point?"

"You walked out in front of fourteen guests. Tommaso is humiliated."

"Tommaso asked me to smile while his friend wore my nightgown."

"Men play games." Madre cut her bread into small squares. "A Donna endures. I endured my husband for forty years."

"Did Papa play this game?"

"Your father-in-law had the decency to keep his games out of the house."

She said it calmly, and she did not look away.

The housekeeper set down a bowl of salad and left without a sound.

I heard the front door open and the click of heels in the hall.

Ilaria came in with her hair freshly done and a pale pink dress I had never seen.

She was wearing my pearl earrings.

"Mari!" She crossed the room with her arms out. "I was so afraid you wouldn't come. Madre said you would, but I didn't believe her."

She kissed both my cheeks and held my hands, and her fingers were warm.

"Everyone is saying it was too much," she said. "I told Tommaso so myself. I only want it to be over, and you home."

"Sit, Ilaria," Madre said, more gently than she had spoken to me. "You've done enough this week."

Ilaria sat at my husband's mother's right hand, in the chair I had always been given at Christmas.

I did not say anything about it.

I looked at the earrings instead, and then at my plate.

"Marisa," Madre said. "I have a small thing to ask."

"What is it?"

"The key at your neck."

My hand went to it before I could stop it.

It was the brass key my father-in-law had pressed into my palm on the morning of my wedding, three weeks before he died.

It was old and plain, with a worn bow and teeth gone smooth from being carried.

He had not said what it opened.

He had only said, "Wear it, figlia mia. Don't give it to anyone who asks."

"What about it?" I said.

"The cord is frayed." Madre smiled with her mouth only. "While you are away from the house, give it to me. I'll have it cleaned and put somewhere safe. It was my husband's, after all."

"He gave it to me."

"He was sick. He gave a great many things to a great many people."

"I'll keep it."

"Marisa."

"I'll keep it, Madre."

The room was very quiet.

Ilaria looked at her plate. Madre did not look at me or the key, and she did not blink.

Madre's hand lay on the white cloth next to her glass, and it was not quite steady.

In six years she had never asked me for anything.

She had told me what to wear, where to sit and when to go home. She had corrected my Neapolitan and the way I held a cup.

But she had never once asked.

I stood up and put my napkin on the table.

"Thank you for lunch."

"You haven't eaten."

"I'm not hungry."

I was at the door when she said, in her smooth voice, "Think about it, figlia."

Ilaria hurried after me into the hall and caught my arm.

"Don't be angry with her," she said softly. "She only wants what's best for everyone."

She hugged me hard. Her arms were thin and strong.

Over her shoulder I saw Madre in the dining room doorway, watching the key at my collar.

I walked down the steps to the street with my hand closed around it.

Not one person in that house had asked how I was.

Everyone had asked for something.

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